Spoilers: None
Content Rating: 12
Type: Other
Characters:
Summary: A short story of Salem's children. Non-fanfic.

Content advice: contains some strong language.
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When it begins, everything slows, like the slow-mo in a thousand nickel-movies.

My back arches into the seat, eyes blinking a few drops of perspiration clear. It’s all ridiculous of course; it’s just a small room in an old schoolhouse. A pretty nice space as spaces go. Gentle afternoon light is shining through the blind to trace a flickering pattern against the walls; musty books lined up in neat rows. Just like the schoolroom back home – and I imagine the world over – really.

As he enters, I stop my fingers from beating their nervous tattoo against the desk, and quickly brush them over my sweat-suffused forehead and through whatÂ’s left of my brillcreamed hair. ItÂ’s best to appear confident. Frank keeps telling us that.

Presentation is everything really.

“Name?” I inquire. A simple enough start at least.

“Patrick,” he replies hesitantly, not moving from where he stopped. I tell him he can sit, and he does so – gladly I think, he’s obviously been waiting around for quite a while. His small frame slides into the chair.

“That your Christian name?” I check.

“Yes, sorry, second name is O’Donnel.”

HeÂ’s apologising to me? You feel like trash at times, you really do.

“Irish descent?” I surmise. There’s no discernable accent, but the name’s indicative enough.

He nods, adding, “Yeah, third generation. Still got some folks out in County Cork.”

I shuffle through the papers on my desk until I find the appropriate file, and flick it open with clammy fingers. “Okay, you know why you’re here?”

“Not a clue to be frank sir – sorry.”

Not again.

“I just want to ask you a few questions, nothing too hard,” I say.

“Sure, hope I can help.”

“You …” How exactly to state it, always hard to know how to begin “… how’d you vote?”

“What?” he asks, clearly not comprehending.

I sit forward, and elaborate, “Last election, how’d you vote?”

“I’m only nineteen,” he says. “But when I can, it’ll be for the Democrats.” The answer’s actually fairly evenly divided between the two parties. One set of exploitative bourgeoisie is much like another in their eyes I guess. He tries a bit of small talk. “My Pa isn’t exactly pleased, real old conservative he is.” And he’s smiling with it.

HeÂ’s actually smiling. First he apologises incessantly, now heÂ’s smiling. IÂ’ve obviously cranked-off someone up there, Â’cause theyÂ’ve decided to give me a real gem of a day down here.

It’s quite a pleasant, winsome smile actually. Naïve even, but then they often look innocent as preachers. Doesn’t mean didly really. Still, it’s a nice smile all the same.

“You’ve been at college for … eight months now, yes?”

He nods. “First one from my family to go,” he states proudly. “Worked my back off to get there, folks were glad as can be to see me pack my bags and set off at last” – he gives a small laugh – “think they were just right glad to be shot of me for a while.”

“So how’re you finding it?”

“Great, sir,” he enthuses, and he means it. The accolade ain’t forced with this kid. “I’m doing swell with my studies, real swell, and there’s so many folks, all sorts, from all around the country. Heck, the only people I met from out State before I went were my uncle’s folks from up in Maine and the travelling salesmen who always visited ’round summer.”

“ ‘All sorts’,” I repeat. Here’s the crux, and I got there soon enough, I always do. Doesn’t do to protract things. “It’s a particular ‘sort’ I’m interested in.” He looks confused, so I swiftly elaborate, “There’s a group of students on campus who are … they take an interest in a certain political agenda.”

“The Democrats’?” he asks.

You’ve got to be kidding me. I keep a level demeanour, though it’s about as far from easy as it gets. I almost laugh, actually. This guy can’t be for real. “No. It’s a certain agenda that we see as a threat to our national security.”

HeÂ’s still drawing a blank. All this equivocation sure ainÂ’t doing him any favours, IÂ’ll say that for nothing.

May as well cut to the chase then. It’s a simple question that rarely elicits a simple answer, and I feel like I’m on autopilot as I say it. I probably am. “Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?”

That thin, boyish face still wears its raiment of ignorance like a shield. “Communist Party – I’ve never put my name down to anything like that.”

ItÂ’s the answer you expect, and you usually get it. Some break down by this point, confess the whole kit and caboodle, and the entire shebangÂ’s as good as over. But then, theyÂ’ve usually had a bit more time on the boil beforehand, and theyÂ’re lying so frantically youÂ’d think the devil himself has a fiery-fork pressed to their ass. This kid just looks as honest as American Pie.

“Certain meetings you’ve attended, they … they’re frequented by members and sympathisers of the Communist Party.”

“ ’Spect they are,” he says, maintaining the same easy, almost sedate tone. This hasn’t happened before – they’ve always understood by now. I can tell if they have every time, whether they’ve said it or not, and if my judgement’s worth jack, he hasn’t. “But I’m not involved with them; I just go along with some folks, y’a know?”

If I did, it’d make this a whole lot simpler on us both. “The thing is,” I explain, “you’ve been seen attending several of these meetings. More than several in fact – you’ve attended all but three this semester.”

“Sure, you’re likely right,” he says.

“And you claim you have no allegiance to the Communist Party or the cause it advocates?”

“I told you, I’m a Democrat,” he says, and gives another small, causal laugh. “Democrats is enough for my Pa remember, think what he’d say if I came back and said, ‘I’m voting Communist now Pop’.”

Sometimes – I really don’t know why, I swear – they just get to me. But not like this guy. After he’s done with me he should be up before the Academy; he’d even have his fellow Reds fooled hook an’ line. “Your ‘Pa’ isn’t here, I am, and I couldn’t give a damn if you’re Democrat or Republican, or much else besides. What me and plenty others do give a damn about is your attendance at nearabout every Pinko meeting on campus this side of Christmas. And yet here you are, expecting me to believe you’ve got no Communist sympathies or affiliations?”

“I barely know what a Communist is, so how could I have sympathies?” he asks defensively, sounding even more bewildered. Still, he doesn’t understand.

It’s now dawning on me that he never will. He really doesn’t know – the kid’s genuine. Don’t ask me why I’m so convinced – all the evidence refutes it – but I am.

“You just went with friends, every time?” I ask, gently. I’ve got to get this cleared up, and quickly, before it has a chance to go any further.

“Well …” his mouth shapes into a shy smile, his eyes flit self-consciously, and he trails off.

“ ‘Well’?” I press. “Come on, Patrick, this is important.”

“Her name’s Lana Summers,” he mumbles demurely, his eyes again slipping from my gaze. “I … well, we got talking, this Christmas, at one of the frat parties and … she’s just like no one else I’ve met sir, to be frank. Ever since … well, I had to get to know her better, and then a few weeks ago, we …” He trails off, trying to hide his a acute embarrassment behind a shy smile. “Well, y’know,” he finally says.

I sit quietly for a good minute, at least.

“Christ,” I finally say. He just looks mystified by the expletive, and doesn’t even comprehend my empty, doleful gaze.

HeÂ’s here another half-hour, but I barely hear what he says. As he gets up to leave, he smiles one last time, he shakes my hand, says he hopes he was helpful, and leaves.

IÂ’m still sitting there as Frank comes in.

“How’d it go?” he asks, placing a cup of coffee on my desk.

I take the coffee, direct one of my taut breaths at it, and drink.

My voice hollow, I tell him, “He knows Lana Summers.”

Frank lets out a slow whistle, the shock manifest on his features. “May as well get the blindfold now.”

I should wake screaming here, but instead I say, “He hasn’t got the faintest clue about her.”

Frank shakes his head in disbelief. “Say what?”

“Honest-to-God. He’s a country boy, bright kid, from Kansas. He met her at a Christmas party, fell head over heals like a soppy puppy-dog, an’ he’s been trying to get to know her ever since. He doesn’t know jack much about Reds here or anywhere else. Just a loveswept kid.”

Frank curses softly, and gives a brief, sardonic laugh. “Well if he is innocent, he’s sure gone and picked about the best person after Stalin’s sister to date.”

I can’t stop contrasting that laugh to Patrick’s. “He’s no fucking idea,” is all I can breathe.

Frank just shrugs, and says, glibly, “Well, if he hasn’t now, he’ll have plenty of an idea soon enough. We’re most definitely going to need to speak to him again.” He turns to leave. “I’ll catch you later Richard.”

I make no reply as he turns and departs.

Heaven knows how long IÂ’m there for until I finally get up, the remainder of the coffee left sitting cold on the desk. I walk out the door, looking away from its glass as I pass into the corridor. IÂ’d not noticed, but itÂ’s faded to dusk.

“Hi Rich. Same time tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

I close the door, and leave the schoolroom behind me.

~

© Peter Foster, 2003